


nobody

by phoenixfeather10



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abused Harry Potter, Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, F/M, Past Abuse, The Cupboard Under The Stairs (Harry Potter), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixfeather10/pseuds/phoenixfeather10
Summary: Voldemort is defeated. Harry is back home on holidays. He should be living the dream.Except that his Uncle won't stop punishing him. And Harry knows that he deserves it.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 78





	nobody

“Stand up and fight!” “You’re not worth it!” “Bastard boy!” “You can’t take it!”  
Thirteen year old Harry stared at his fingers. They were curled up, attached to his hand. His hand was attached to his arm.  
His arm was still his body. That was a wild thought.  
“Stand up boy!”  
Words were swirling around his head. Then the belt was swirling – and it came down with yet another stinging thwack.  
Pain after pain after pain.  
Maybe if I try hard enough I’ll turn into the floor.  
Whack. Whack. Whack.  
Beads of sweat were dripping down Vernon’s face. He paused in his efforts, and wiped his forehead. “You’re a useless kid,” he spat. “Can’t even cook a chicken without burning it.”  
Harry knew that this was about more than the chicken.  
But he didn’t have the words to speak.  
Instead, he closed his eyes and prepared himself for the next whip of the belt.  
Instead, it was a kick – a vicious kick to the ribs from Vernon’s pointy toed work boots.  
It thudded like nothing else.

///

Harry’s room under the stairs was little more than a cupboard.  
In fact, it was a cupboard. Aunt Petunia often reminded him that it was where she had used to keep the vacuum cleaner, and since he lived where the cleaning supplies used to go, he had better be the cleaning supplies.  
Harry supposed that it was her idea of a joke. His aunt really had a terrible sense of humour. At least she knew it though. She never at her own jokes. She only laughed at Vernon’s jokes – a loud, crashing, cymbally laugh which reeked of insincerity.  
It was ten minutes to midnight, and Harry was lying on his bed – or his sleeping bag on a yoga mat, if you wanted to be a realist about the situation – and staring up at the ceiling.  
His whole body ached. Bruises were creeping around his back and onto his stomach. He could practically feel them growing into purpley blue flowers.  
He knew he had deserved the beating about the chicken… it was what he had deserved, after all! He had let it overcook horribly. He had cooked a roast enough times to know how to do it properly. He had ruined everyone’s dinner.  
He didn’t mind being beaten for something which he had done wrong.  
But he knew that wasn’t the real reason for the beating.  
With a grunt Harry tried to shift his back, giving his right side a break from the pressure. He bit his lip to keep from moaning. There wasn’t much he could do about the pain, except drink lots of water and try to sleep.  
But sleeping felt impossible tonight.  
Memories were sweeping back.  
Earlier that morning –  
The knock on the front door downstairs.  
Vernon yelling – “I don’t know nothing about no Potter boy! What business is it of yours anyway!”  
Harry peeking out of the upstairs window, and peering through the thick glass – four wizards with quills and paper. “He defeated You-Know-Who!” they were insisting. “Just a word!”  
Vernon’s bellow shook the house. “I don’t know what you think you’re on about! Now get out before I call the police!”  
The wizards made a swift exit off the driveway. Harry made himself scarce for the rest of the day, by cleaning out the gutters – there was no way that Vernon would follow him onto the roof.  
But then he had to cook dinner. And of course, like the idiot he was, he forgot to set the timer for the oven.  
The chicken was as rubbery as anything.  
Vernon took one bite, and then seized Harry by the collar in one swift movement. “What do you think you’re playing at!” he whispered dangerously.  
Petunia pushed her plate away. “I’ll order takeaway,” she said hurriedly. “Chinese sound good, darling?”  
Vernon didn’t respond – merely shook Harry up and down till his ears rang.  
Then he pushed Harry out of the dining room into his office. Harry caught just a glimpse of his cousin’s smirk before the door was slammed closed, and he was shoved to the floor, his uncle’s shoe firmly pressing him to the ground.  
He knew to be silent. He knew not to say a word.  
So he didn’t.

///

It took hours for Harry to fall asleep.  
But when he finally did – he dreamt a wonderful dream.  
He was lifted up above the crowds. “WE WON!” they cried. “HE’S DONE IT!”  
Voldemort was dead, and Harry had done it. Harry had killed him.  
It had been a swift stab to the heart with the Sword of Gryffindor. Then he had thrown the chicken into his face. And he had left grinning, and Ron and Hermione were hugging him, and reporters were pushing cameras into his face – and they were all laughing with pure joy and bliss.  
Harry woke up then.  
He had a smile on his face.  
He was also crying.  
He wiped the tears away hurriedly with the back of his hand. He didn’t cry. Crying was weak. If uncle Vernon caught him –  
No, he was being silly. He was in his cupboard. He was safe here.  
Harry took a deep breath.  
And out again.  
The dream had got it right. Except for the part about the chicken.  
Voldemort was dead. He and Ron and Hermione had defeated him – back in the Chamber of Secrets, at the end of the last school year.  
He was well and truly dead. Dumbledore himself had said so.  
And now it was a month and a half into his holidays. And he missed his friends more than anything in the whole world, and –  
Harry stopped, mid thought.  
He bit his lip to stop himself from crying out.  
What if they didn’t want to see him? What if – what if he shouldn’t see them?  
Horrible. Horrible. Horrible.  
How could he be a friend to Ron and Hermione when he was nothing but a failure? How could he be worthy of their friendship?  
Harry almost felt his heart stop as he realised that Ron and Hermione and Neville and Ginny and all the rest of them – they all deserved better.

///

On the day after the wizards had visited his house, Harry worked as hard as he possibly could.  
A regular day for Harry was a busy one. He got up early to cook breakfast for the family, before heading out to do the garden before it got too hot. Then he would vacuum the floors, and mop if they needed it. He would dust and tidy, do the washing, bake, clean the toilets, and make homemade pasta for lunch – Petunia’s favourite. He actually didn’t mind the pasta part. Rolling out the pasta sheets with the big wooden roller was satisfying, and good exercise to boot.  
Harry knew he was a terrible cook. All of his dishes had something wrong with them – too salty, overcooked, not enough seasoning. He knew Petunia was right when she insisted that he work harder. He knew he wasn’t working hard enough.  
And try as he might, he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t cook food that Petunia and Vernon liked.  
And so, every night, he would get a slap around the head, or a kick in the shins – or, worst of all, a ‘visit to the office’, as Vernon liked to put it.  
Harry sometimes wondered if Vernon enjoyed punishing him. He knew it was good for him and he knew it was for his own good – but surely Vernon shouldn’t enjoy it?  
Harry supposed that it probably didn’t matter.  
He was starting to feel like an absolute failure.  
So he held on to the memory – the precious memory – of defeating Voldemort. Of hugging Ron and Hermione. Of the look Ginny gave him when she woke up in the hospital.  
It was the only part of him that was good.  
It was the only part of him that was anything close to perfect.  
And so he clutched those memories tight to his chest.  
Some days it was the only thing which kept him going.  
One day Vernon would see – he would see that Harry was worth it.  
Harry would become a someone. He wouldn’t be a no one any longer.  
So on this particular day, Harry worked as hard as he possibly could.  
///  
Throughout the whole meal, no one said a word.  
From the kitchen, Harry did the dishes as quietly as he could, waiting with listening ears for something, anything –  
But there was nothing.  
Only short conversation about Dudley’s day at school, and his lack of a new computer game which he longed for.  
Harry wiped the counter and cleared the table with a glowing heart. His ears were red with pride.  
He had done it.  
Even with aching ribs and a throbbing back, he had done it.  
He couldn’t help smiling to himself as he changed the bin liner – felt as if he could burst out into song, even the Hogwarts anthem with its questionable melody –  
Until he heard a thump behind him.  
“Boy. Office. Now.”  
Dejected, Harry closed the cupboards and rung out his sponge. He carefully put away the detergent and let the water out of the sink.  
Then he slowly made his way to the office.  
Vernon was sitting at his desk, facing away from Harry.  
“Close the door, boy.”  
Harry slowly closed the door and stood, hands behind his back. Waiting.  
Then Vernon said something which Harry never forgot.  
“You impressed me today, boy.”  
“Sorry?” Harry said it before even realising.  
“Come here,” grunted his uncle. He turned around in his seat.  
Harry stood in front of him.  
“Come sit on my lap, boy.”  
Something in Harry’s stomach did a flip. This was not what he was used to. This had not happened before.  
The air felt thick.  
Suddenly he was sitting on his uncle’s lap.  
His uncle was feeling around, his thick hand down Harry’s pants.  
Then suddenly Harry’s hand was being pulled, pulled, pulled down towards Vernon –  
His hand was down his uncle’s pants. Something was hard. Vernon was grunting, feeling Harry up and down.  
Harry didn’t remember anything after that. When it ended, he was being pushed out of the room.  
He somehow found himself in his cupboard.  
He didn’t sleep at all that night.  
//  
The last month of holidays was icky and terrible; a bad dream.  
Harry avoided his uncle as much as he could, but there was nothing he could do when his uncle would wander into the kitchen in the middle of his pasta making sessions on a weekend. His uncle would stand next to him, and stare down. Sometimes he would walk past him and whack him on his bottom. Other times he would push him up against a wall and feel him all over, till Harry’s body went numb and his mind thought frantically of Hogwarts, of better days …  
The evenings in the office were the worst. Sometimes he would have to get naked and lie on the ground. Other times he would sit on his uncle’s lap and have to feel him all over. But every evening after dinner, there was a cry of: “Office, boy!”  
Whatever happened, Harry always went along with it.  
I’m good, he thought. I’m good. I’ll prove to you that I’m good.  
But he was starting to realise that his uncle was enjoying punishing him.  
And he, Harry, was not enjoying it.  
The end of the summer holidays could not have come soon enough.  
But always, the constant thought –  
Ron and Hermione deserve better.

///

“Do you know what I think?”  
Harry and Ginny were sitting on a hill above the Burrow, just before dusk. It was a warm summer, and the breeze was gentle. Childhood years at hogwarts was a distance memory now.  
Ginny was entangled in Harry’s arms, and drawing circles on his hand with a leaf.  
“What do you think?” she said. She turned to look into his eyes, and for a second Harry had to catch himself and remember what he had been thinking.  
“We’ve been together for five years and you still make me forget my thoughts,” he whispered, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.  
She smiled indulgently at him, and raised a finger – she gently touched his nose. “What were you thinking, Potter?”  
He softly kissed her fingertips. “I think – it is so wonderful to love someone and give yourself to them freely.”  
There was pain behind his glasses.  
She twisted round properly, and gently removed them. She carefully brushed his hair out of his eyes, and held his face in her hands.  
“You are not what happened to you,” she said. Her voice was firm, strong.  
Harry placed his hands over hers.  
He smiled at her.  
And for the first time – for the first time, Ginny knew for certain that he finally believed it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! I wrote this in a frantic hurry and figured I might as well put it up on here. Let me know what you think! x


End file.
